


Politics

by manic_intent



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: M/M, Multi, RPF, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of fics for the Dresden Files kink meme's Marcone/Rahm Emanuel prompts, +Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Politics

Marcone’s phone rang, cutting him off in the middle of a decidedly familiar spiel about nosing into mobster business, and I took the chance to take a closer look at the basement car park, ignoring Hendricks’ disapproving glower. Behind Marcone’s hired muscle was a twisted ball of dripping metal that looked like it had once been a Porsche, a couple of Fords and one of those tiny Japanese cars. Blood curled in a wavering lick towards the drain, and the air stank of cordite and death.

Seemed this was one of Marcone’s favorite downtown haunts, and naturally, the people who had died had been some flavor of local politician, probably the greasy sort. Murphy had been not-so-gently flicked off the case from higher echelon pressure, and I had decided to help her nose about. 

Or at least, that was the official story, since technically Murphy didn't know that I was doing it. Personally, I was very curious to know what the hell had crunched up three humans and four cars into a relatively neat ball of metal and gore in my city.

“Marcone,” Marcone said, in a clipped voice indicating Displeasure With Unwanted Interruptions, then abruptly, he chuckled, long and low and liquid. Huh. A lover on the side? Marcone had never seemed the sort to be… playful. “Well, what a surprise.”

Ex-lover, then. Marcone had turned around, circling closer to the car park ramp, probably for better reception. Hendricks’ frown ridged into Neanderthal proportions as I tried to edge towards the ball, wondering whether or not to risk the Sight when in the immediate proximity of a mafia don and his pet killer. Probably not. I’d eaten in the morning, and throwing up on Hendricks was going to really ruin my day. And most of my teeth. 

“No, of course it wasn’t my doing. I have better ways to… no, you refused my money, didn’t you? Now why would I come about… there’s more subtle ways of making sure you win the election.”

I raised both my eyebrows, but Hendricks was doing his Impassive Mountain impression now. Election? What? I eyed the ball of metal, then Marcone’s sleekly tailored back, with a growing sense of suspicion.

“Of course I want you to be mayor. Otherwise you might just take off back to Washington and… yes. No, it was not my doing. Yes, I will find out. What? No… yes, magic. No, not farcical. Tell you what… same place? Do you want me to send a… Love you when you talk to me like that. Hah. Ciao.” 

Marcone hung up, and despite smoothing his expression when he turned back to look at me, I could sense a distinct aura of residual smugness. “Harry-”

“It’s Dresden,” I corrected automatically, and realized my voice was a little more highly pitched than usual. “What the hell, Marcone?”

Marcone arched an eyebrow at me, as though daring me to throw any more questions at him. 

To hell with that. “Mayor?”

“He will be,” Marcone said, with a faint touch of smug pleasure in his tone. “He won’t thank me for the interference, though. This will not emerge into the press. As you can imagine, the fallout may be… radioactive, politically.”

“For your politician boyfriend?” I asked, incredulous. “Isn’t that also radioactive? You’re in the mafia.”

“And I happen to be very discreet.” Marcone inclined his head. “This might be the work of one of my enemies, forcing my hand.”

“You don’t fucking go halves on your enemies.” I said, eyeing the metal ball again in sick disgust. I couldn’t even stand White Council politics, let alone the transient human version. 

“It seems that I do not.” Marcone slipped the phone back into his pocket. “However, bitter experience has taught me that attempting to threaten or talk you off doing something once your mind is set to it only leads to considerable property damage, so if you would prefer, we could… discuss this later. You have my number.”

“You’re going to get rid of it.” I accused.

“Of course. But I suppose that you can have an hour with it.” Marcone looked at his watch. “Until the clean up crew comes.”

I could work with an hour. And admittedly, I wasn’t sure that I wanted some unsuspecting Chicago citizen to chance on this horror. “Fine.” 

“Very well. I’ll have my men secure the area so that you can work in peace. Now if you would excuse me, I have an appointment to catch.”


	2. Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that happen during the Appointment.

I swear on my magic that I did not in any way intend to chance upon Marcone at Mac’s. Stars, of all places Marcone could have gone to meet his inadvisable boyfriend, why in Creation did he have to choose the only pub I could comfortably to go to without having to possibly have the death of electronics on my conscience? 

Thankfully, Hendricks was watching a pair of out-of-town Fae and didn’t seem to notice when I slunk over to the counter. Mac grunted at me solemnly and presented a beer, without request, with a brief and sidelong glance at the corner table, where Marcone was sitting alone, a couple of plates of Mac’s steak sandwiches already present. He was watching the door, expressionless if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Unwillingly used to Marcone’s company as I was, there was obviously something of the tightening to his eyes that spoke of avid hunger, the way he got to whether he talked about magic.

When I was a quarter done with my microbrew, a short, slender man stepped into the pub, dressed sleekly in an iron gray suit and tie, fingers clenched at his side. He had probably been handsome when he was younger, and even now, silvering hair made him looked distinguished rather than old, but his mouth was set in a hard line, and his eyes were sharp, almost angry. I would have described him as ‘dapper’ if he didn’t walk like gravity was his enemy, all hard strides, rounding on Marcone’s table and glaring at Hendricks when the bodyguard made as if to pull out a chair. 

“You’re late,” Marcone said pleasantly, with a warm smile that looked all shades of weird on his face.

“Yeah?” the man growled, arms folded on the table and leaning forward, fearlessly aggressive, rather like a vicious terrier facing up to a bigger dog, “Unlike certain types of criminal scum, my taking off in the middle of the day to have a fucking beer is difficult to arrange. And explain. You said you had an explanation, then fucking spit it out.”

I choked on the microbrew and spent a constructive minute wheezing and covering my mouth, but thankfully, nobody from the mobster-politician table seemed to notice. Maybe this was why being ballsy or insulting to Marcone only seemed to amuse him; it probably reminded him of Rahm. Or maybe it got him off.

Trying to scrub that disturbing conclusion out of my mind, I nearly missed the faint sound of Marcone chuckling. “Try the sandwich, Rahm. It’s good.”

“I’ve been here.” Rahm, however, grudgingly reached for the plate.

“We haven’t had food here before.”

“I have. Not with you.” Rahm viciously cut into a sandwich, then he smirked at Marcone’s carefully frozen expression as he bit into a mouthful. “I was born in this city, Marcone. And I’m aware that recently it’s had a slew of the inexplicable, more than usual. This is a good place to talk to people with that sort of information.”

“I see.” Marcone didn’t look entirely comforted; in fact, he looked like a man who’d just realized that he was possibly only one of several other guys in a queue for premium Superbowl tickets, and by Rahm’s evident amusement, he knew it. “I could have told you what you needed to know.” 

“But you wouldn’t have told me what I  _wanted_  to know,” Rahm said flatly, jerking his knife briefly in Marcone’s direction. “I’m aware that you’re not just part of the Outfit. There’s some sort of fucking special magic club around here and you’re apparently the fucking president.” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Marcone seemed amused again. “And not a good sentiment for you to voice in this place.” 

That much was true – there weren’t any (other) Wardens around, but some practitioners in a corner, a couple of old men and a woman, all dressed in browns and grays, were looking uncomfortable. Mac, however, was still wiping a cup philosophically, which was a good sign; barkeeps, particularly the sort that ran this sort of joint, needed to have very good instincts for trouble.

“I’ll voice what I fucking want.” Rahm seemed to use expletive as a connective word or a punctuation substitute. “When I’m Mayor, I’m going to have a long goddamn talk with Special Investigations. If there’s something that needs to be done to prevent-”

“I’m taking care of that.”

“The fuck you are, did you know how many people died in that last-”

“I am aware. And I have taken measures.”

Rahm scowled at Marcone, not backing down, his eyes narrowed. “Stop fucking interrupting me.”

“I apologize,” Marcone said calmly, “But respectfully, I think Chicago has other problems for you to attend to.” 

“Nothing as important as people dying for no damned reason.”

“I’ve offered to explain the reasons.”

Rahm shot him a meaningful glare, and turned his attention back to his sandwich. “And my opinion on that fucking stands.” 

“What if I arrange for a third party to talk to you? I think you’ll find him interesting,” Marcone did, however, look faintly disappointed. “And before you mention it, he isn’t related to any of my enterprises. His employer, as it were, might even be at odds with my interests.”

Rahm eyed him suspiciously. “Another mobster?”

“No. She has different concerns.” 

Hell’s bells. Marcone had to be talking about yours truly. Hastily, I finished the microbrew, missing the rest of the exchange. When I got up from the counter, however, Hendricks was already looming in the way, a small, impassive mountain. “Mister Marcone would like to have a word with you.” 

Despite my immediate protest and a backward look at Mac, I was promptly frogmarched to the table and pushed down into a chair, even as Marcone smiled like a cat, merciless, and Rahm stared at me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as though he couldn’t decide which color of criminal element I was. “Hi,” I said, a little awkwardly. “I’m Harry Dresden.”

“You’re the yellow pages wizard,” Rahm said, somewhat to my surprise, then added, “One of my staffers think that it’s fucking funny.”

“I’m working on the wording. It’s an ongoing project.”

Rahm transferred his steely glare to Marcone. “This is convenient, him just happening to be here.”

Marcone shrugged. “I didn’t think he would be here, but this  _is_  one of the only places where a wizard can drink safely. It’s neutral ground.”

“I’m aware of that.” Rahm’s glare transferred back. “I’ve heard that you assist the police.” 

“Sometimes. Especially when they pay,” I said warily, hoping to keep Murphy out of this conversation. 

“And what do you do, exactly?”

“Well…” Something told me that Rahm wasn’t looking for an elaboration of my advertisement, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable with telling Rahm exactly  _what_  I was at present. “I try to keep things under control. It’s my city.” 

Rahm looked back at Marcone, who shrugged. “Despite his appearance, Mister Dresden has a strong sense of civic responsibility, inexplicably.”

“Hey!” I objected, but Rahm grunted. 

“But you’re a wizard for fucking hire?”

“Technically,” I admitted. I hadn’t exactly checked with Mab how exclusive a Winter Knight was meant to be, services wise. 

Rahm stared at me for a long moment more, slow and thoughtful, then he finished his sandwich and washed it down. “Is he any good?” 

“He’s very capable at what he does.” Marcone shrugged. “Though he doesn’t have a fine touch where property damage is concerned.” 

About to give Marcone a piece of my mind, I hesitated when Rahm began talking instead. “I’m going to have to talk to some people I know. But if I do become Mayor, maybe you’ll like to work for me on a retainer, Dresden.” 

Marcone’s eyebrows rose at that, but I blinked. “What?”

“Rather than that yellow pages shit,” Rahm explained, “You can go fucking firefighting on the city’s behalf, if what you are checks out.” 

Murphy would shit herself laughing. “I, uh, well, that’s very kind of you, but I don’t work for politicians.”

“And why’s that, Dresden?”

“It’ll be the same as working for Marcone here.” 

“I should break your nose for that,” Rahm told me, though his lips curled up briefly, as though he found that funny.

“You won’t, you need to get elected.” I pointed out. 

“Are you able at least to give me the explanation I want, about what’s going on?”

“I think so.” It was going to have to be a Cliff notes version, but I supposed that I might have to risk it. Particularly since Rahm seemed to be friendly with – or at least acquainted with – Special Investigations. Maybe I could do something for Murphy, for a change. The thought was a little cheerful. “Now?”

“Not now. We’ll have to have the talk on…hn… Friday, meet me back here at this time.” Rahm was getting up from the table, looking at his watch. “I have a meeting to attend to, can’t stay. Marcone, whatever information you had for me will have to wait after all.”

“Are you free for dinner?” Marcone asked, with a wry smile as though he did this every time despite knowing the answer.

“With you? Not fucking likely,” Rahm shot back, and then he was gone, striding out of the pub, leaving me sitting awkwardly opposite Gentleman Marcone. 

“I like him,” I told Marcone, because I was feeling suicidal, and as I thought, his expression tightened up again, his smile fading into a thin line. 

“He’s a very interesting man,” Marcone said, and there was an uncharacteristic edge of icy warning in his tone. “You should take up his offer if you won’t work for me, Dresden. Rahm is very principled. Unforgivingly so.”

“I’ll think about it.” Having a steady income to supplement the Warden’s pension would be helpful. Especially since that last’s quantum was probably in doubt right now; the White Council was still working out its infiltration problems and licking its wounds. “Looks like you’re banging your head against a brick wall with him, though.”

“I enjoy challenges.” Marcone finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth, rising from his chair. “Would you like a lift back to your new apartment?”

I wasn’t surprised to learn that Marcone knew where I lived now. “Nope. I’ve got someone to see.” 

“Very well. Perhaps an unnecessary word of warning, Dresden,” Marcone added, as an afterthought. “If for whatever reason you happen to… even inconvenience Mister Emanuel, I will not be very amused.” 

Stars. It looked like infatuation brought out the Godfather in Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Who would’ve thought. “Got it.” 

“Glad to hear it.” Marcone inclined his head, circling around the table, and left, Hendricks in tow. I stared at the empty plates, then dragged myself back to the bar counter. I was going to have to have a word with Murphy.


	3. Public Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for a Rahm/Marcone/Dresden.

**I**

The door was being knocked hard enough for the hinges to rattle, and I was freezing my ass off.

Chicago was bitterly cold during winter, and a decent side-effect of being the Winter Knight to date was that the cold didn’t touch me like it used to. Or at least, it had been. This had meant a great deal of savings, blankets and quilts wise, seeing as water heaters in certain types of housing tended to go bust around me, and fireplaces were hazardous and needed tending. 

Shivering, cocooning myself in blankets and wondering if this was Mab’s idea of an April Fool’s joke two damned months too early, I trotted Indian-style to the door, a small conical mountain of quilts, nearly tripping over Mouse in the meantime. “I’m awake! Stars, if it’s you, Molly, it isn’t even  _daylight_  yet-”

“Mister Emanuel will speak to you now,” said a low rumble beyond the door, and I peered cautiously out of the narrow window of the rented ground-floor flat. Outside the door was someone who looked, bulk-wise, like Hendricks Version 2.0, if wrapped up soundly in thick jackets, gloves and scarves, and idling at the roadside was a sleek black car. 

Hell’s bells, was no one normal in this town? I squinted blearily at the sky. “Business hours are nine to five.”

The knocking started again, harder this time, until even Mouse let out a low growl; Mister had scooted up onto the mantelpiece, ready to abandon house and master alike if necessary. I winced. Getting this property’s landlord to lease it to me affordably had been difficult enough; explaining how I got his door broken down yet again was not going to go very far in his good graces. 

“Fine! Fine. Give me ten minutes.” I crabbed back to the bedroom, and somehow managed to pull on decent clothes, wash my mouth out, and open the door just as Hendricks 2.0 raised one meaty fist. The thug grunted, as though satisfied, and began to trot back down through the thick snow towards the driver’s seat. With a deep sigh and a nod at Mouse, I locked the door and trudged after him. 

Rahm Emanuel was somehow managing to eat a sandwich, drink coffee and text on a Blackberry, in some delicate balancing act that made me goggle rudely until he nodded at the brown packet and cup between us. “Eat something.”

I said the first thing on my mind as the car pulled away from the curb. “I can break your car.”

“Try not to, it’s on the city’s budget,” Rahm shot back, and added, as an afterthought, “Don’t come near my Blackberry.”

“You’ve been talking to Marcone.” Obligingly, I picked up the sandwich, which was still warm and gently slicking up the paper bag with circles of buttery oil. It had been toasted, and I could smell cheese and bacon. “How did you guys manage to clone Hendricks?”

Rahm favored me with a brief, owlish stare before finishing his sandwich and wiping his fingers delicately off on a square of tissue, stuffing it all into a packet. “Try to be funny in your own time, Dresden. It’s fucking inefficient.” 

“Comes from the guy who once sent someone a dead fish.” I replied, though I managed to fish out a thick corner of the sandwich without getting too much oil all over my fingers, “As much as I appreciate the free breakfast, what do you want?”

“We’re going to my office for a nice talk. And then I’m going to have some questions for you, and I want the answers by the end of this week.”

“Or what? I lose a gold star?” I drank a scalding gulp of coffee in the hopes that this was going to make more sense after the placebo caffeine hit. No such luck. “I said I wasn’t working for you, Emanuel.”

“But you are,” Rahm seemed genuinely surprised that I didn’t know, and he wasn’t the sort for elaborate practical jokes.

I gave this thought its due. “Am I in a parallel universe where I went to hell?”

This got a smirk, and a brief fumble for a briefcase under the front passenger’s seat, then Rahm took out a thick scroll from within it and tossed it into my hands. I scanned it briefly, then stared dumbly at Mab’s mark, twisting and glowing faintly at the bottom, icy cold even through my jacket and pants. “Stars. How in Hell’s name did you pull  _this_  off?”

That explained waking up freezing my ass off; Mab’s power had probably promptly faded once she had signed that deed. On hindsight, the rude wake-up call was lucky when it had come; any later and I would have become a wizard Popsicle, of the unsuspecting Chicago edition. 

Rahm took the scroll back from me and stuffed it unceremoniously back into the briefcase. “You don’t need to know.”

Mab couldn’t have wanted anything that Rahm was able to give, could she? A horrible thought presented itself. “You didn’t trade your soul, did you? Or promise her any favors?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rahm said impatiently, “Drink your goddamn coffee.” 

“She’s a nasty piece of work,” I persisted, making a show of putting down my sandwich. “She might bide her time, then ask you for the favor when it’s going to hurt the most. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me, whatever your reasons are, but you’re going to regret it if you tried to bargain with her.”

“I didn’t get your goddamned ‘contract’ by bargaining with your previous employer, Dresden. I might have tried,” Rahm admitted, as an afterthought, “But I was told in no uncertain terms that she was a fucking bitch and that aside, I wouldn’t have had anything that she would have wanted in exchange for you.”

“So how did you do it? I’m only asking,” I added quickly, when Rahm’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to get myself fired for months, without any success.”

“I didn’t sacrifice any babies to do it, if that’s what you’re implying. Now shut up. I’m trying to draft a polite email.”

“I can see how that’s going to be difficult.”

“You’re still holding enough of that sandwich for you to choke to death on, if I shoved it down your throat, Dresden.” 

**II**

Someone had once said that hospitals needed a special trauma ward for people who worked for Rahm Emanuel, and I could see how he’d come to that conclusion. Rahm had deposited me in the corner of his office farthest away from his computer, with a dire warning as to what would happen to my balls if the computer were to even develop a hiccup, and had blasted back through the door, trailed by staffers. Philosophically, wondering if I was just about to wake up from a dream and hoping that this was in no way some sort of perverse subconscious wish fulfillment, I finished my coffee, binned the cup, and took a nap. 

I was woken up rudely for the second time that day via a balled up paper projective hitting me squarely on the forehead. Sitting up with a yelp, I managed to fire up sufficient cognition to glare blearily at Rahm, who was typing away at his sleek desktop computer, and sulkily considered frying it from this distance. 

“You’re on government pay now,” Rahm told me, without looking up. “So you’re going to start work at nine a.m. like the rest of the drones.”

I rubbed at my eyes, fighting a yawn. “So what do you want me to do, Grand High Master? Fetch you coffee? Rub your feet? Remotely fry the computers of people you don’t like?”

Rahm eyed me suspiciously for a moment over the monitor. “Neesham’s outside, printing out a list of the shit I want you to look into. Once she’s done, you can go.” 

“Do I still get paid?”

“You get reasonable expenses. As to salary, we’ll see, if you get any results.” Rahm consulted his Blackberry, then added, as an afterthought, “I have a meeting with Special Investigations tomorrow, three o’ clock, in my office. You’ll be there.”

“I’m not very good with watches.” On the other hand, that would most likely be a very entertaining meeting. Perhaps I might even give Murphy an early warning.

“Think of something then. Don’t make me send a car for you like that motherfucker, I don’t have his budget.”

Something belatedly clicked upon the oblique mention of the Baron of Chicago. “ _Marcone_  made that deal with Mab. He gave you that piece of paper!” 

“Could be,” Rahm drawled, insultingly so, like he was talking to dog that just did a surprising trick. “Good call, Dresden.”

“You made a deal with a  _mobster_?”

“Why don’t you fucking say that a little louder?” Rahm growled, pausing long enough while typing to glare back up over the monitor at me. “I ran into him at a gala and got to talking somewhere private. His move, not mine. He asked me whether I would be so kind as to attend a dinner on his birthday at his place, I told him where he could shove his gold-edged RSVP, he offered to trade, so I thought of the hardest thing that I could, offhand.”

“And you thought about me?” I asked, impressed and unsure whether or not to be concerned by this revelation. 

“We had lunch that afternoon, discussing that bear ghost shit, remember?  _You_  spent it harping about how difficult it was to terminate your employment, and nothing else immediately came to mind.” Rahm glared at me as though I had personally betrayed him by apparently understating how difficult it was to pry the Queen of Winter’s undying nails off my soul. “Maybe I should have fucking asked for World Peace.”

Somehow, I had no doubt that Marcone could have made a constructive effort to attain even that, if he really wanted to. I opened my mouth to explain, and found myself saying, instead, “I’m going with you.”

“With me what?”

“To that dinner.”

Rahm actually slouched back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“You don’t know what deal Marcone could have cut with her. I’ll go with you. Look,” I said, as placating as possible, as Rahm scowled, “If it turns out that nothing’s wrong, it didn’t hurt to be careful, did it? And besides, did that RSVP said that you were the only one invited?”

“Suppose not,” Rahm said, and now he was wearing an evil grin. A small part of my conscience felt sour about gatecrashing someone’s carefully arranged birthday dinner, but on closer inspection, it looked more like a slice of my sense of self-preservation. Rahm somehow seemed to clue in on this; his evil grin widened. “As fun as it might be to watch him kneecap you for it.” 

“A kneecapped wizard isn’t going to be very useful to you since I can’t get mobile.”

“You can learn to use a fucking wheelchair.” Rahm bent back over his computer as someone knocked respectfully on the door. “That’s Neesham. Now go and make yourself useful, Dresden. I expect results.”

**III**

I think my eyes must have bulged briefly when I read the number on the bank cheque; Rahm smirked at me over his shoulder as he stalked over to his desk. Then he glared, as his computer shorted out. “ _Dresden_.”

“Sorry. I’m in shock.” I took a few deep, calming breaths, and the lights stopped flickering. “You can do this with the city budget?”

“I’m paying you out of my pocket,” Rahm said, sounding annoyed that I had even asked. “Can’t you read the name of the account on that cheque?”

“ _Your_  account?” The lights flickered again, despite my best efforts. “Why?”

“Because I can’t explain having a ‘magic monkey’ on the city payroll?” Rahm rolled his eyes. “You’ve probably seen all the hoops that Special Investigations jumps through. If I bankroll you with the city’s money, I’m not going to have a very friendly – or long – term as mayor.”

“You? Friendly? Am I missing part of the plot here?”

“Fuck you, Dresden,” Rahm said, with deadly calm. “Now can you back the fuck off and let my computer respond to the asskicking of life.”

I backed off to the far corner, cheque in my pocket and hands up in the air. Somewhat to my surprise, after some creative invective and applied violence, Rahm’s computer booted back up. I sat down on my chair, relieved, as the murderous tension in the room eased off from Erlking levels to mere ogre levels. 

“It’s a lot of money,” I said again, conscience slightly pricked. Of the list that Rahm had given me to look at, most of them had been hoaxes, and of the last three, two had been delegated to my D&D group, and the last one had only taken ten minutes to exorcise. Easy stuff. And it wasn’t as though Rahm technically even had to bother paying me, since he owned that piece of paper with Mab’s mark.

“And you’ll get that once a month.” Rahm logged into his computer. “Some years ago I decided to do the crazy thing and stop working in politics. I made more money than I could ever use, invested it in places where it would grow more money, and went back to politics to raise my blood pressure. Your salary’s being comfortably paid out of the profits from a small burger chain in Miami.”

“A  _burger_  chain?” 

“Fucking cheap and terrible ones.” Rahm agreed, with an evil smirk. “You’ll shit a brick eating that dogshit.” 

Great. And somehow, this felt like more familiar ground. “That’s a definite boost to my self-esteem, Grand Master.” 

“You should use the money and get yourself a suit. Something that won’t make security buzz me every time you walk into the fucking building.”

“Honey,” I batted my eyelashes archly at him, “You really shouldn’t have.”

“So,” Rahm continued, ignoring me, “How do we arrange a meeting between me and your White Council buddies?”

“We don’t.” I blinked. “Stars, why would you want to?”

“White Council for a start, then your fairies and vampires and whatever the hell lives in Chicago. This is my city now. I’m not going to stand for myths and fucking legends traipsing around murdering people and inflicting property damage. At the very least, they should pay taxes.”

A frozen moment of horror made me imagine, very vividly, how Mab would react to such a proposition, and instead of stating the obvious, I said, “Lara Raith probably pays taxes. They like to keep a low profile.”

“Your sex whore vampires?”

“They’re not  _my_  vampires, but yes, they pay taxes. They’re low profile. The Red Court was destroyed and Black Court don’t stick around. I might have a contact within Raith’s court,” I said, evasively. Thomas had changed, and I didn’t think I liked what had happened. 

“All right. What about the pixies?”

“I’ll introduce you to Lily – the Summer Lady,” I said slowly. That should be fairly safe enough, or so I hoped. Save where symbolic battles or ongoing faerie shenanigans were going down, Lily was fairly friendly… by fae standards, anyway. I didn’t really want to imagine what would happen if Rahm met Maeve. Kick off some sort of interspecies war, probably.

“White Council?”

“I’ll get into serious trouble for this,” I muttered. “Let me talk to some people first, okay?” Ebenezar might be reasonable – Hell’s Bells, the Blackstaff was probably the only member on the Senior Council who might be able to react with humor to Rahm’s usual attitude, or my disclosure of the Nevernever and the world of magic and its various territorial and vicious factions to a mere human. “You already know far too damn much already.” 

“You can leave off the fucking melodrama. I’m trying to work out an arrangement,” Rahm said evenly. “One that might reduce the civilian casualties that seem to count into your sort of shit.”

“More people die from random gun violence and motor accidents than magical fallout,” I pointed out. I refrained from adding that ‘your sort of shit’ was an unfair comment; Rahm seemed volatile.

“Or at least, more of the former gets  _reported_.” 

“Also,” I added, growing exasperated at my newest employer’s sheer mulish stubbornness, “There’s also the Baron of Chicago. And Modoc Securities.”

“Met them, goddamn waste of time,” Rahm said curtly, dismissively. Of course. “Looks like you might be able to act as a go-between with the entire fucking circus. Add it to your job description.”

“ ‘Magic monkey liaison’?” I hazarded a guess. 

“Ha fucking ha. And get that werewolf’s ass here. I have something for him to do.”

“I thought a mayor only manages the city departments and agencies. Appoints the leaders and commissioners and such. Not negotiate peace treaties with the Nevernever.” 

“Do you see anyone else doing it? Other than the motherfucking Outfit?” 

He had a point. Even if he didn’t appreciate how much of his (admittedly pert) ass that he was dangling out over a roaring fire. “Okay. So what do you want me to do now, Grand Master?”

“Right now? Get me a cup of coffee. Hot enough to leave third degree burns on the next staffer who asks me what he’s supposed to fucking do.” 

**IV**

A few months into public service and the dark side of the Force were doing me good, I had to admit. I managed to move out of the low rent, high in crazies apartment to a quieter suburb with a small but comfortable townhouse, get the car a new paint job, and even upgrade the petfood that I had been feeding Mouse and Mister. 

Not having to live on irregular paychecks or the Warden pittance was good. I spent most of the time trying to make friendly overtures – or at least, neutral overtures – to the practitioner community, keeping tabs on other threads, and affording more time to help Molly with her homework. Special Investigations had been reworked, with Murphy now in the driving seat, which meant fewer assholes at crime scenes. 

Life was good, even with the nagging feeling that I’d just sold my soul to the political machine. I was slowly warming up to Grand Master, even; once you built up a thick resistance to his acerbic sarcasm and flagrant use of invective, all that constant kinetic energy was sort of…  _attractive_ , even, in the way a tropical storm was from a safe distance, like a miniature, walking and talking force of nature that inexorably herded everyone to anywhere he wanted. Small wonder Marcone was so intrigued. If I didn’t have a healthy regard for the currently intact nature of my balls, I probably would have been, as well. 

I had managed to get Ebenezar to agree to come back by Chicago when the White Council had finished sorting out the last of the Mind Control Ink fracas, when my cellphone (second one of the month) burbled to life. 

“Yes, Grand Master.”

“Fuck you, Dresden. You have one hour to meet me at the office.” 

“Uh.” I trundled over to the window and looked up at the sky, then risked a glance at the digital number on the phone when it didn’t fizz out. “Tall order, Grand Master.”

“Start moving, then. We’re meant to go to that motherfucker’s birthday, remember?”

Oh.  _Oh_. “The suit got shredded by that-”

“I don’t give a damn. Get here, Dresden.” Rahm hung up, and I decided to risk driving. Somehow, I made it there without getting killed by rush-hour traffic, sporting a long scrape down the new paintwork and a car already on its last legs due to my personal stress level. As I managed to hurl the car into an empty space outside of the mayoral office, I noted Rahm on the sidewalk, looking at his watch and tapping his foot. When he saw me, he scowled.

“You’re late.” 

“Grand Master,” I let myself out of the car, which promptly gave out, its contribution for the night complete. “Traveling through hyperspace isn’t like dusting crops.”

“God save me from geeks.” Rahm jerked his thumb at the black car. The Hendricks Clone was already in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed ahead on the road like he was getting ready to launch a tackle. “Get in, and don’t break anything.”

“Sir, yes sir.” I hunched down on the seat, concentrating on keeping my breathing steady. Thankfully, Rahm didn’t seem inclined to talk, instead texting on his Blackberry as we joined the stream of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

My stomach was moaning blue murder by the time we limped over to Marcone’s ridiculously large villa, to the point where Rahm leveled a scowl at me in the middle of a Blackberry break. “You’d better not start eating the upholstery.”

“But it smells so  _good_ ,” I complained, though I hauled ass anyway, grateful to be able to stretch, even if I had to do it on Marcone’s literal turf. The only things that had died a sad demise on the way over from Rahm’s office had been the radio, the CD player and the onboard GPS, which was a win in my books. 

We were late enough that Gentleman Johnny Marcone was actually standing on the steps of the house, dressed up in a sharply tailored suit, Hendricks Version 1.0 looming as unobtrusively as possible behind him. The Baron of Chicago glanced over at Rahm, who was still texting as he got out of the car, then frowned at me. “Dresden?”

“Sorry we’re late?” Fate and a sad lack of self-preservation conspired to turn my smile into a smirk. “Uh, happy birthday. I got you a present, but I forgot to bring it.” Mouse made such nice, fluffy hairballs around the house; I had been rolling one up for days.

Rahm ground his thumb grimly for the last time into his Blackberry and slipped it back into his suit. “Happy birthday. Jim, did I get him anything?”

Hendricks Version 2.0 rumbled into life, reaching back into the front passenger seat and passing Rahm a paper bag, which he promptly pushed into Marcone’s hands and started up the stairway in his gravity-is-my-enemy stride. Marcone pulled enough of his ‘gift’ of the bag long enough for me to recognize it (a Godfather Trilogy DVD set), and then he passed it with a sigh to Original Hendricks and strode up the stairs.

When I followed, Original Hendricks stepped briskly into my way, even as Marcone glanced over at me. “Rahm…”

“His stomach’s eating itself at this point,” Rahm said, from somewhere within the foyer. “Bring him along, he’s not going to pee on the fucking floor or something. Is this painting an original?”

Marcone hastily disappeared into the foyer, and I stepped around Original Hendricks with a bright smile, hoping that I wasn’t about to be punched in the face, and followed. No immediate violence ensued, which was promising – Marcone was busy ushering Rahm away from the Apparently Suspicious Painting of Sunflowers in the foyer, a hand on the small of Rahm’s back which I was vaguely surprised that the mayor hadn’t objected to or broken. 

The dinner table overlooking the grounds – of which I had extensive bad memories – was set for two and candlelit; or at least, it had been. The candles had burned nearly to stubs, and Rahm looked unimpressed, turning to Marcone. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I was,” Marcone said dryly. “But I think we will manage.” He nodded to Hendricks, and moments later there was a third seating at the table. Quickly, I took the one with my back to the window, in case I needed to exit stage left by the skin of my teeth, and hoped that Marcone wasn’t going to revenge himself on me by slipping something creative into my soup.

“You’re not trying to serve me anything Jewish, are you?” Rahm demanded, when Marcone seated himself primly at the table. As unobtrusively as possible, I shifted myself a little closer to Rahm and checked my protection charms. I’d managed to tie one on Rahm a month ago, after the Rainman incident, despite his loud protests and snarling about not having had to wear a ‘fucking friendship bracelet’ since ‘fucking elementary school’. 

“Not since the last time,” Marcone assured him, with a faint smile. “I recognize that you prefer to only eat Jewish dishes that were prepared by your ancestors or when there are reporters observing the process.”

Hell’s Bells. Marcone was trying to make a  _joke_. And despite all odds, Rahm actually smirked at that, as though he was amused, holding the mobster’s gaze evenly. Now feeling like a very expendable third wheel, I swallowed my instinctive comment and waited for the appetizer. 

Marcone either had a very good chef, or he’d kidnapped a great one. It was definitely the best dinner of my life. Even Rahm had seemed grudgingly impressed when working his way through the coconut roasted ocean trout with tempura avocado; he relaxed visibly, and seemed to have gone down to only one expletive every five minutes or so. The wine helped, too; it was some ancient vintage from a magnum bottle that was older than Molly, and after one glass I was already feeling comfortably fuzzy in the upper attic. 

As to the mobster-Baron, it seemed like Marcone had decided to make the best of a bad job and turn on the charm anyway, despite the presence of said third wheel, all handsome smiles and witticisms. Was Rahm even remotely bi? When Billy had read out the wiki page to me (if from a computer which was at a safe distance), it had been short on the romance, long on the table stabbing, dead fish, and aggressive confrontations with people in the men’s showers. 

Huh. Come to think of it, on that last point… “Dresden?” 

I blinked quickly. “Yes, Grand Master. Your wish is my command.”

“Haven’t you been listening?” 

“No sir,” I admitted cheerfully. “You can keep on flirting with each other, don’t mind me.” That had been the wine talking. 

Half expecting a need to dive out of the window at any moment, I blinked again when Rahm snorted instead and glanced at Marcone, who shrugged. “I told you he was oblivious.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t make a move on him earlier.” Rahm was attacking the next course, which had been introduced as an eight-score kobe beef with polenta, water chestnuts, sugar peas and shiitake mushrooms. I’ve never had beef melt in my mouth before and taste like butter and heaven. It was awesome enough that I promptly ignored the conversational overflow, concentrating instead on stuffing my face. 

“I did. He never noticed. And then you came back to Chicago.” 

“What, you can’t multitask?”

“I didn’t believe that you would react very well to ‘multitasking’.” 

“I’ve got nothing against watching,” Rahm said, and I looked up quickly as Marcone made a choking noise. 

As the mobster wiped his mouth hastily, I stared at Rahm, who looked smug. “What? Did I miss something?”

“Earlier you mentioned something about wishes and commands, Dresden.”

“It’s in that contract with the sigil that you keep in your desk next to your stash of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups that Colbert sent you,” I pointed out. “Literally, I might add. Except where it breaks the Laws of Magic,” I added hastily, in case Rahm had suddenly developed a wine-fueled idea of getting me to mind-control the Senate, or something political and ridiculous. 

“Pity,” Rahm said, meditatively. “Some key legislation might have gotten passed more easily.” I  _knew_  it. “But you’re not against doing things on my command that  _aren’t_  against the Laws of Magic?”

“Other than the disclaimer, your wish, my command.”

“His previous employer used to get him to service her.” Marcone observed mildly, eating a mushroom.

“That was only once!” Or twice, technically, if you counted that time during the solstice, but I maintained that no penetration had been involved, only a thorough mind fuck, as it were. Rahm, however, looked speculative, and the revelation was as sudden and unexpected as seeing a lamb with seven horns. “Stars.” 

“You’re slow. It’s fucking embarrassing.” Rahm told me, teacherish, even as Marcone smiled like a wolf and delicately polished off the steak, wiping his mouth again. “What’s for dessert?”

Marcone’s eyes went distant briefly. “Frangelico soufflé with gingerbread and tempered chocolate.”

“Fuck that. Finish up, Dresden. You’re dessert.”

“ _Me_?” For the record, if I squeaked, it was still in a manly manner.

Rahm’s wolfish smile mirrored Marcone’s. “Deal with it.” 

**V**

I blamed the wine. Also, Marcone must have had a little Raith in him; his kisses seemed to burn rational thought of the ‘what the fuck am I doing’ variety, leaving me writhing and moaning under his weight on the ridiculously large bed as he shucked off my shirt and duster, working on my belt. 

Rahm had pulled up a chair, legs crossed and slouched, his cheek resting on his palm as though he was watching a slow-moving rugby game, though he did smirk when I shot him an incredulous look. “Isn’t this bad for politics?” I managed to gasp, hoping that the embarrassing hitch in my voice had gone unnoticed. Going from a ‘fuck you, criminal scum’ attitude to something literal seemed rather drastic and sudden. Or maybe I was really as oblivious as Marcone said.

“Only if I get caught,” Rahm said blithely. “We’re not in public any longer.”

“There could be… Stars… could be cameras somewhere.” My traitorous hands were trying to undo Marcone’s tie without choking him, and the rest of said traitorous body was occupied in rubbing itself up against the thigh pressed between my legs instead of kneeing him in the balls. 

“Possibly,” Rahm said, sounding unimpressed. A man who would go up against Mab just to get Rahm to attend his birthday party would likely be beyond cheap blackmail tactics, even if said man was a mobster. Showing that he was thinking along the same lines, Rahm added, “What did you trade for that scroll anyway, Johnny?” 

Hell’s Bells, so it was ‘Johnny’ now. I choked down a semi-hysterical giggle, even as Marcone said, a little out of breath, “Information.”

“Bullshit,” I said, leaning up on my elbows. “What could you have found out about that she would have wanted?”

Marcone smiled, predatory again even as he nipped me over the jaw and pulled off my belt. “Part of Auberon’s true name, perhaps.”

Stunned, I didn’t move when Marcone removed my shoes, though he didn’t seem to bother with the socks. “How did you get your hands on that sort of information?”

“Through contacts, diplomacy and ingenuity, Dresden. You might even learn, sometime.” My retort was swallowed when Marcone managed to get his hand past the waistband of my boxers and  _squeezed_ , smirking as I shuddered and arched.  _Stars_ , but it had been a while, the Queen of Winter and Court shenanigans notwithstanding; Marcone’s hand was hot, human and felt like heaven stroking up to palm against the slit of my cock, and I might have made a wet, desperate noise as I shivered.

“Lose the jacket, Johnny,” Rahm instructed from the chair, like the bossy prick that he was turning out to be in every matter under the sun, “But keep the shirt.”

Surprisingly, Marcone obeyed, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it off the bed, his answering, intense stare palpably molten with lust, and hells, Rahm’s self-control was insane; he merely smirked again, not even shifting in his seat, so very prim and proper. Somewhere along my studied fascination with the way Marcone’s broad shoulders were pulling at the beautifully cut fabric of his white shirt, I realized through a dim haze of desire that I was naked, and Marcone wasn’t. Something was wrong here. I tried to protest, but the words came out in a whine instead as I only managed to pull Marcone’s shirt out of his sleek dress pants.

Marcone – Gods and Angels and every bloody deity – Marcone merely looked over at Rahm, as though for instruction, and my stint as Winter’s Knight must have fucked me good, because that only made me whimper and squirm, desire thrumming through me at the byplay and making me more painfully hard than I could ever remember being before.  _Stars_.

Rahm’s smirk had grown into a lazy smile, and he was stroking his maimed hand slowly up and down the sharp cut of his gray pants, along his inner thigh, and Marcone was following the movement hungrily, his hands curled into bruising claws on my hips. “I think Dresden wants to move on to the main course,” he drawled, calm as bloody ever, but I made what I hoped was an encouraging noise and tugged at Marcone’s tensed shoulders. “But I want to see you drive him crazy first.”

“Fuck you, Rahm,” I managed to croak, resolving that if I died from this, I was going to use my death curse to ensure that Rahm Emanuel could never, ever utter any form of invective for the rest of his life. He would probably implode within a week. 

Marcone had to be a mind reader; he seemed to know exactly what I liked. He started back on kisses, rough and hungry until my head was swimming from it, rubbing his long, gun-callused fingers up and down my flanks, then when I was gasping weakly for air and the shreds of my sanity he moved on to lick and bite at my neck, chasing the pulse and working his way so damned slowly down to the collarbone, ignoring my breathless babbling and grabbing hands. He did, however, look up when something smacked against his ear.

It was Rahm’s tie, and the asshole was slowly unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. “Get his hands. Behind his back,” Rahm clarified, at Marcone’s questioning tilt of his head.

“I’m so spitting in your coffee tomorrow,” I told my boss venomously, as Marcone nodded and flipped me over onto my back, planting a knee on my spine and manhandling my wrists together despite all the wriggling, binding my wrists with the tie. 

“If you don’t like this, you’ve got your magic words,” Rahm drawled, his gaze dark and flint-hard and hells if that didn’t make my already aching cock twitch. “Keep going, Johnny.”

“Aren’t you joining in?” Marcone’s voice was uneven and rough, as though he was running a marathon, hands sliding up my ass and squeezing briefly, then rolling me around onto my back to rub the pads of his thumbs up over my nipples until I bucked and choked. 

“Maybe I will. Maybe not.” Rahm was still talking, but Marcone had followed his thumbs with his tongue, lapping hard like he was trying to eat me up and my brain wasn’t exactly functional enough to follow speech patterns right now. I whined and tugged uselessly at the knots against my wrists, trying to push up into Marcone’s mouth and rub myself against him at the same time, but he had his hands up against my shoulders, pinning me down. When he moved on to the other nipple, the lights in the bedroom shorted out, and Rahm chuckled.

I don’t think I was speaking entirely in English anymore by the time Marcone worked his way down to press his tongue into my navel, and I was close to sobbing for it when teeth sank into the soft skin just next to my cock. “Please, Stars, please, please-”

“All right,” Rahm said, and his voice sounded edged, now, though he hadn’t moved. “Johnny, your tie goes around his cock. Don’t want him finishing too fast.”

“Won’t work as well as a proper ring,” Marcone was panting, shallowly, and he looked as though he’d been rubbing himself against the bed, his eyes wild and his collar askew. “There’s one in the side dresser.”

“Using something proper would probably give him a heart attack, and I still need him to work on the Gramercy rumors tomorrow.” Goddamn slave-driver.

I whimpered, going for pathetic, my sense of pride having already crawled away to die a lonely death, but Marcone was merciless, undoing his tie with fingers that shook slightly. It looked like he was an old hand at abusing ties; tying a knot in the silk that would ride up just  _there_  even as he bound the rest of the fabric tightly around the base of my aching prick. The sensation of silk easing taut over sweating skin made me bite down hard on my lower lip, adding minor injury to all my existing problems. Marcone chose that moment to lean up for a kiss, sucking over abused flesh like a goddamned Black Court vampire until I was groaning and shifting urgently up for it like a bitch. 

“Where’s the lube?” Rahm asked. 

Marcone’s eyes gleamed in the dim light from the moon through the window and the lampposts at the driveway. “Side dresser.”

Rahm somehow managed to get elegantly, rather than stiffly like any normal person, to his feet and walk over to the side dresser. He was hard; Marcone and I were both staring at the line of his pants, the mobster with that familiar avid hunger, and me with a sense of lingering dread. Rahm tossed the tube and a condom packet onto the bed, beside Marcone’s right hand, then to Marcone’s obvious surprise, settled back into the chair.

“Keep him interested while you’re working him open,” Rahm said, clearly amused at Marcone’s expression of disbelief. “Make sure he doesn’t get off on it.” 

“I hate you,” I gasped out, as Marcone made a harsh moan but reached for the lube anyway, “I’m quitting tomorrow.”

Rahm didn’t bother to reiterate that he literally owned my ass; instead, he leaned forward a fraction when Marcone slicked up his fingers and bent down, pushing my knees open. He hadn’t even removed his  _pants_. Blearily, I couldn’t quite distinguish at that point who was the bigger bastard, the mobster or the politician, then I was screaming and arching when lips closed tight over the head of my prick and Marcone’s  _tongue_  was pressed up under the swell. Dazed and trying my best not to black out like a schoolboy on his first roll in the hay, I stared hard at the ceiling, grit my teeth and mentally went over all the homework that I had set for Molly this week.

I was up to Wednesday’s work when Marcone got two fingers within me and  _crooked_  and turned my brain into white noise. Dimly, I could hear Hendricks Version 2.0 swearing faintly outside – Rahm’s car had probably died, along with the lampposts in the driveway. Rahm had peered out, the elegant line of his throat pale in the moonlight, then he growled, “You’ll pay for that, Dresden,” and if not for the knotted tie I’d probably have come on the spot. “I think that’s enough, Johnny. Now how about you put him through the bed.” 

“Rahm-” Marcone started to say, and I didn’t even know that the Baron of Chicago had  _that_  sort of tone within him, hoarse and raw.

“Maybe later, Johnny,” Rahm purred -  _purred_ , honest to Gods – and Marcone groaned, hooking his thumbs into the hem of his pants. “No, don’t take those off,” Rahm instructed, evil bastard, and Marcone grimaced, but unzipped and drew himself out from his briefs, rolling on the condom and slicking up, awkwardly, then turned me around and onto my knees, my cheek and right shoulder shoved up against a pillow. It still  _hurt_  when Marcone pushed in, his hands clenched on my hips, his breathing labored as he shook from the effort of keeping it slow. He was  _big_ , and nothing in the Winter Court had prepared me for being on the receiving end of this.

“Damn you for killing the lights, Dresden,” Rahm said harshly, his left hand curled tight on the armrest. 

“Asshole,” I grit out in response, as Marcone slipped snug and all the way in, thick and heavy and full. My employer’s vocabulary was beginning to rub off on me.

“How’s it going, Johnny?” I could  _hear_  him smirking.

“Tight,” Marcone said heavily, somewhere above my neck, “Want to try it?”

Backup brain circuitry was briefly shot by the mental image of Rahm and Marcone taking turns on my ass, and I nearly missed Rahm’s chuckle and his drawled response, “I want to watch you fuck him, Johnny.” 

Marcone made another raw noise, and I yelped and shuddered at the first snap of his hips that drove my shoulder up into the mattress. “H-hey! My hands, give me my hands, ngh…!” 

“Fine,” Rahm said, with a magnanimous air, and even as I was briefly considering the best way to have my vengeance tomorrow, I could feel Marcone working on the knots. I braced myself against the headboard once my wrists were free, and the force from the next thrust jarred all the way up from my wrist to my shoulder. I might have begged for mercy at that point.

Marcone was trying to kill me, all brutal thrusts with an unexpected strength in his grip that kept me from doing anything but brace myself and take it. The folds of his pants was damned uncomfortable against the back of my legs, and I was sweating like I was trekking across the heart of Summer, first losing my voice, then losing count. Marcone shifted, experimentally, then again, and I was bucking and crying out hoarsely, all dry heaving sobs for breath as Rahm made a harsh, badly stifled sound to the side and Marcone picked up his pace.

Eventually, blessedly finally, Rahm said, “Let him finish,” and fingers were tugging out the knot under my balls and I was coming harder than I ever had in my life.

Lying boneless on the bed and wondering if I was paralysed, I stared dumbly as Marcone shuddered and pulled out. His shirt was plastered to his frame, and his hands were shaking from arousal, watching Rahm. I would have felt left out, if I wasn’t already happily sated.

“Come here, Johnny,” Rahm purred, spreading his legs, and Marcone somehow managed to stumble off the bed with a modicum of dignity, sinking down between Rahm’s thighs. I cursed myself for killing the lights, unable to make out anything but outlines, then Rahm’s head snapped back in the chair, his teeth bared and gritted, and Marcone’s moan seemed muffled, my spent dick somehow managing to jump at the wet sounds. 

Eventually, Rahm let out a grunt, and relaxed, closing his eyes. Marcone had rocked back on his heels – I couldn’t tell if he’d finished – and seemed to be wiping his mouth, pulling himself up. He didn’t get to steal a kiss; Rahm had his palm up instantly between them. “Wash out your mouth first.” 

Marcone cleared his throat a couple of times, then I heard a dry laugh. “Care to spend the night?”

“I don’t see how I have a fucking choice. Someone fried my car.”

“I’m still going to quit,” I told Rahm from the bed, or tried to, anyway; I’m not sure if I managed to say anything remotely coherent.

“You’re sleeping on the wet spot,” Rahm shot back.


End file.
